I had a backhoe to bury a horse years ago. When the small Shetland pony died, I had a shovel. Neither was a pleasant task, and during the task, I wondered what insanity invaded my mind to take on the job of feeding a large animal I would never think of eating.
I had a backhoe to bury a horse years ago. When the small Shetland pony died, I had a shovel. Neither was a pleasant task, and during the task, I wondered what insanity invaded my mind to take on the job of feeding a large animal I would never think of eating.
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